


half in the shadows; half burned in the flames

by Buttercup_Bee



Series: Pedro Pascal Character Collection [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Reader, Gen, Past Torture, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_Bee/pseuds/Buttercup_Bee
Summary: "He was hidden, someone took him from the temple..."As a Padawan, you'd survived order 66, and managed to steal away Grogu during the attack. In a turn of events, you're forced to leave his side, erasing what you can of his memory and knowledge of the Force for his protection. You'd accepted you may never see the child again - that is until you do, with a Mandalorian at his side.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: Pedro Pascal Character Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032768
Comments: 84
Kudos: 313





	1. Prologue: Order 66

**Author's Note:**

> I literally flailed when I heard Ahsoka say "He was hidden, someone took him from the temple." and knew I had to write something. I don't know how long this fic will be, but I've got more than most of it figured out, and am super excited to see where it takes me! I hope you all do too! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr where I post as well as: buttercup--bee

For just a moment, you sense it. The air smells of lighting just before a thunderstorm, so still and quiet, the ambience stagnant with electricity. It’s as if the temple falters within the careening motion of fading peace - 

And then there is light. 

A bright flash you barely manage to blink through, thrown feet away from where you had been standing. A body encasing agony swallows you whole, fragments of metal digging into your skin the moment you jab into the stone floor, head smacking hard enough to hear a distinct crack. The air leaves you, no room to scream out in pain, and the blood rushing to your ears sings of death. 

Curling in on yourself you grunt, an attempt to stir from your shell shocked horror, leaving only the after effects of what is taking place around you to seep in. 

The brutality, the screaming, it meshes with the beating of your heart as you struggle to move. Barely, you stand with a wobble, grasping at your side in realization that it too had been plunged deep with a distinct cut of metal, the forlorn piece grating at your ribcage as you twist to survey your surroundings. 

There is an instant you can’t rationalize what you see playing out before you - Jedi facing off an insurmountable number of stormtroopers, ships and droids mounting blasters you’ve never seen, carnage at every turn. You blink, hard, hand grazing at your midsection in an attempt to alleviate the pain. It only worsens, another breath has you on high alert, limbs quaking. 

Shakily, feeling around the piece that had lodged itself inside you, you hold your breath and rip it out - the quicker the better, and heave out a moan in pain. It floods you in ways you hadn’t thought possible, and you begin to panic as the adrenaline kicks in.

One after another, in quick succession, they fall. They descend the way leaves do, or how snow drifts from the sky; you can’t move, not until a glistening armor of white catches sight of your cowering form. 

It’s then you are under siege of rage, as tall as a mountain, though you falter as you remember that you do not have a weapon. You were still a padawan, one in training, you couldn’t stand to face a hardened soldier in battle without the assistance of a Jedi master. 

And even they, the warriors of peace, were slaughtered here - a temple of devotion and creed. Twisting your lip, you heave in another attempt to breathe. It leaves you breathless, a sharp pain springing up from your ribcage to your neck, your skull aching as you begin to tug at your thoughts. 

You had seconds, mere seconds to figure out a plan. Self preservation came first in a situation like this, and it remains hollow and tall as you trip backwards. Like hail, the blaster fire and the thrum of sabers tug at your muscle - and then it hits you deep and hard; _younglings._

With the best of your ability you shuck yourself towards the temple, dodging what you can of those who take aim at your person, delving deep and low when needed. Perhaps with more training you would have left unscathed, but you’re stricken twice before you fall to the ground and take cover behind a pillar.

Crippling anguish surges through you, quick and deft and efficient in its effort to haul you down. Scrambling, your hands come to hold your thigh, burning and blistering. The blaster’s fire had torn through you, it’d burrowed deep past your bone and flung itself far out. Leaving you with the aftermath sensation of loss, fingers strained white as you rock back against the pillar. 

The battle rages on, your hands shaking; you’re afraid, but you couldn’t just sit still and submit. That was not who you were, it was not what you were trained for. There were still children in the temple, no older than eight. And with the massacre taking place, there was no doubt in your mind they’d be next. 

Exhaling, you close your eyes, an attempt to find some semblance of peace in all the chaos. You had so very little time, and much to do. 

_‘I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.’_

The mantra repeats like prayer in your thoughts, until it’s leaving your lips in sacred whispers, abandoned hope weeping deep in your chest. Fire power slams down beside you, jumping at the intense bass you leap into action, disrupting the lilt.

You don’t think your next move through, instead you weave, bow, and hum with the force as you brush past your last effort - just as your master had taught you to do; a resorting even plane that held your spirit within the Force’s grip. Without a weapon all you had was your gift, and so you must use it to protect and keep peace, that is what you were made for. And so you finish your sprint at the end of a large gaping hallway, further untouched, throwing yourself through the door -

Dread fills you whole, blood and bones and nothing but torn flesh paint the room. Turmoil slackens at your body, whole and all consuming, unable to process the scene before you. Children...small, innocent children, slaughtered. 

The fear hangs in the air, as if the memory of them beforehand held tight to the chamber. A moment passes, absorbing the sight, before you crouch and choke up what little you had eaten that day. It leaves in one fell swoop, the horror finally settling in. 

It wreaks havoc at every part of your being, your heart stuttering, lungs burning alongside the curling agony that weaves through muscle and bone of your own. Tears, unbidden and hot, slide freely down your cheeks, more falling every time you face the pending massacre. It’s trance like, viewing the accosting figures, dry heaving, and attempting to find the strength to walk. 

In the back of your mind, you can decipher a lilt of terror, the agitation soaring through your spine and meeting at your clammy hands. You only notice it is not your own emotions when you make out a whimper, one you are certain didn’t come from your own mouth. 

You whip around, eyes wide open in desperation. Another whine, so small and scared, and the adrenaline kicks you forward in a limping mess. Trying to avoid the remains of those scattered across the floor, you make your way towards the back corner of the room. There, you see it, a sleek shell floating carelessly in one spot. How'd it had been missed, you don't know but you don't care. What mattered is they survived. Inside, sniffling smothered in overwhelming trauma hits you, the sensation leaving you numb of your own consternation. Gently, you kneel before what you can only assume is a carrier. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, unsure of yourself, “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

You’re surprised when it opens, revealing a bundle of cotton and green and the largest eyes you’d ever seen on a child. Mesmerized, you tilt your head. You’d never seen this one before, the others yes, but this youngling you’d never met.

The child sinks further into the comfort of his carrier, unblinking, and while you cannot smile you do offer what affirmation you can within the medium of the Force. It’s ears twitch - no, _his_ ears twitch, and the very well being of him softens in understanding. 

You don’t notice it until you're on the ground, yelling out in shock, inflammation rapidly clawing its way up your thigh to your spine. A blur of motion, it’s only a haphazard guess when you get a millisecond glance of the entryway. White and black clad men, blasters directed at you and the boy.

With a wince, under duration of pain and unending distress, the baby coos behind you alarmed. You shoot a hand up, willing what strength you can assemble to your person, and with a deep breath you clench your fist. 

The faceless men don’t hurtle backwards as expected, no, they’re lifted from the ground and held there, legs kicking in vain. The child's eyes watch, wide as saucers, stilted on you rather than what you're doing. At least you hope, as helpless as it might be. 

Twisting your palm face up, they gag, the armor cracking and caving their bodies inwards. They try and scream, gasping and struggling, a swift anger bursting in your chest as you watch them, a righteous fury springing forth in retribution. 

You can feel their panic, it wafts off them in waves, and you squeeze tighter. They deserve it, you rationalize, they deserve to suffer for all the people they’ve decided to betray, to butcher. Soon, when the desperation fades to nothingness, you let go. Their bodies falling to the floor with a thump, heaping and sprawling in the space. You ignore the temptation to do it once more, to find more who deserve to be hurt, and instead turn to the child. He watches eagerly, and you frown. Ignoring the guilt of having subjected him to more death, you reach for him, and he lifts his arms willingly. 

“It’s going to be alright,” You hum, willing yourself to ease him, to forget your fright and take him with it. Clinging to your chest, he burrows his head, and you rest a hand against his back and rub it up and down. You needed a way out, you needed to protect him and yourself. Willing him to look up at you, a delicate, huffy voice murmurs, and you hold him tight while maintaining his attention. “I won’t let them hurt you,” You coo, petting at his ears, “I promise.” Already, you are willing to kill for this child, and you’d be worried if not for the trauma instantly bonding you to him.

The bay was only a small trek away, if you could get a starship, you’d be safe; as safe as you could be in a time like this. There was still the threat of being shot down or chased, but it was better than staying here, waiting to be murdered. 

With your decision planned and prepared, you tug the carrier and center the console to follow you. 

_Grogu_

You look down at him, a sad smile cursing your features. The name falters, staining your memory. You nod, pulling him in tighter, and burying his face into your chest once again. He doesn’t push away, accepting the act of consolation. Whimpering and huffing, he trembles, and you realize he is crying, barely breathing, finally allowing himself to mourn - a child, mercilessly attacked. 

You’d sooner die than let another hurt him. You swear it.


	2. Chapter II: The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reception! I'm blown away! Ayres (pronounced Heiress) will be the surname of for you for plot purposes. You can also find me on tumblr as: buttercup--bee

“I know, I know.” You hum, running a soothing hand down the small plane of his back. Grogu curls into you, shivering, an opaque fear coursing through his minute form. You had hoped after having gone through the countless night terrors, your comfort would be enough. 

It had been foolish to think you’d remain enough beyond the horrors of The Purge. You’ve come to find that for the little one, memories were far more vivid than your own. Pieces were missing for you, details subjected to bends and twists so you could connect the dots. Making up for what you could have possibly forgotten. 

For him, it remained lucid. A graphic caught in the throes of time, each puzzle perfectly manicured, fit into each other with little to no wiggle room. He’d tried to relay this to you through your shared bond, but the details were lost on you. 

You didn’t need detail. You only needed to understand so you could better comfort the child. It was becoming harder to do though, and has you sway back and forth, holding him in an attempt to portray you are there, solid and warm and alive - there for him - it is beginning to dwindle. 

Without meaning to, you can sense the stress that possesses the little one. Amidst the fear and hate, there is an enduring amount of attachment that has been tied to you. At his age, it’s dangerous, you know that. It can shape his life from then on. But you can’t bring yourself to break it, even as all reason screams you do. 

And you know he can feel it, the conflict that radiates in your mind. It only serves to worry him more, defiant in whatever imposes you fall through with it. It’s a vicious circle, and it’s animated further by his nightly terrors. 

An array of panic rolls down you, not your own, but his. You see as he see’s, nightmares viciously tearing through your mind. And tonight's ends in his abandonment, or your death. You look down at him, large eyes drawn and glassy meeting you head on. 

The child’s frown is despairing, little clawed fingers pinching into the fabric of your shirt. It seems he’s been dreaming of your departure or worse, your downfall. Another reason to leave and find him someone new. This was dangerous, and if it were to continue he could become a newfound enemy of all living things. 

The Force was a fickle thing, it swayed until you caved in the dark or swung in the light. Only a few rare Jedi had held the belief of a power in between the rift. The grey. It is deadly, and those who do so tend to fare worse than intended.

Frowning, you shake your head. You wouldn’t think of him like that, he was just a baby, and your fears still meet his. You reside to ignore your concerns, and sit down with him on your lap. 

“I’m not leaving,” you sigh, “I just...I don’t want you to let your fear consume you.” Running a hand down his back once more, you cradle him so he can see you properly. “Do you understand?” 

Grogu coo’s, eyes fluttering under your gaze. A moment of silence passes, his little fingers coming to hold your thumb. He’s beginning to drift, and as he does you hum a soft tune you know he finds comfort in. He eases into you with slow, soothing breaths, you watch him intently. The rise and fall of his chest, the twist of him as he goes to nuzzle you, the droop in his ears - it should have made you feel peace. 

Instead, dread pools at the depths of your abdomen. You knew, eventually, you’d have to leave him. Even if you didn’t want to. 

* * *

Panic seems to be a new friend of yours. 

At every turn there is something new waiting to kill or sell you. Maybe both. It’s become rather tiresome, and you want nothing more than to scream. Not that it will help, but it would certainly relieve some of the stress. 

Bundled up in the corner, Grogu wiggles in his carrier, gawking while you ready yourself for the day. Every now and then you took odd jobs to keep the two of you afloat, different alias’ with each one. And you made damned sure he was kept hidden, whether it be in the rooms you rented or in another ship you had taken off with. 

That didn’t mean he listened, of course, sometimes urging the floating carrier to follow, or more irritatingly, travelled on foot. It was hard to go unnoticed with him tailing you, and the more people who saw them meant more loose ends. 

Regardless, a lot of the work was menial. Meaning, nothing dangerous, just simple tasks as you’ve found you had a knack for fixing things up. Whether that be a machine, droid, or a person didn’t matter. You’d get good pay for it too, enough to find other lodgings if the current place you were staying at was getting suspicious of you and Grogu. 

Securing your belt, you give yourself a once over before turning to the little one, who reaches his arms up. Of course his immediate rumination is to be held. 

And as always, you oblige. Lifting him out of his acting crib, you bring a finger to his dainty nose and tap it. “I’m going to be gone for a few hours,” he frowns, ears falling back. He knew this, that doesn’t make hearing it any better. “I want you to stay here, okay? No more following me around, at least not here.” 

Carajam, while far from the inner war, was still dangerous. Perhaps the least safe planet you’ve come across with Grogu at your side. Many bounty hunters, slave traders, and dealers made a home here. If you’d had a choice, you would never have visited in the first place. But it was the only location close enough with how little fuel you had in your ship. 

The insurmountable ink of his eye burrows into you, understanding, and you hope he is actually taking what you say to heart and will listen for once. Setting him back down in the carrier, you plant a soft kiss to his forehead and leave - making sure the door is locked before you do.

You’re half-way out of your lodgings when you hear the patter of little feet. You drop your head, spin on your heel, and find Grogu trailing you. 

Frowning, you kneel before him. “What did I say?” 

He tilts his head, a gurgle of sorts spewing out in quick concession of your query. Sighing, you haul him up in one arm and trek back to the room. Plopping him into his carrier you let out a disgruntled sigh. 

“If you’re coming with me you’re staying in that, and it won’t stay open. You’ll be sitting in the dark for hours. Is that what you want?” 

The little one giggles happily, his teeth prodding out when he delves deeper into the thick cotton of his blankets. Maker, what a swamp rat. 

Lifting a brow, you urge “Are you sure?” 

Another pop of laughter shoots from him, your heart swelling at the sound. Putting on a weary expression you pat his head and close the carrier. His little self disappearing behind the mass of steel. 

A part of you knew this was a bad idea, no, all of you knew this was a bad idea. But it was this or him following you without the protection of the shell. 

Today was going to be long. And you weren’t wrong in the slightest. 

The sun blistered, and the sort of folks that prodded you for your attention made you squirm. It wasn’t how they spoke or looked, it was the energy of them. The aura’s of murderers, thieves, slavers, it clenched at your gut the more you honed in on it. 

Vaarie, the woman you had agreed to help for the next few cycles, was your only assurance in a place like this.You’d met her in the cantina looking for work, and while no one else gave you the time of day, or thought you’d be easy to jip, she had swooped in.

At first, she too made you weary. As aged as the planet, with hard lines and scars to match. She stood tall too, easily towering over most of those she’d passed by - blasters on each side of her hips, her hair buzzed to the scalp, and a grimace that had you on your toes. 

No one would even make eye contact with her as she moved her way to you. Obviously, she was well known, and her swagger adorned the pride she must have felt in that. This was a woman who knew how to fight, so you were flabbergasted when she picked you out of the bunch also searching for jobs. 

She was kind though, bought you dinner and a drink, spoke to you like a person instead of profit. Which you were grateful for. Her trade was simple. Work for fuel, credits if you needed that too. You accepted without much thought. 

You only ensured your spot for the passing cycles ahead because you’d proven yourself accomplished in mechanical leaning prospects. It’d been a past time when you were younger, and had continued the hobby onwards. 

Vaarie appreciates the work you do, she shows so in the time she makes available to talk with you, asks questions that aren’t personal enough to scare you away. You thank the maker she’s the one you fell in line with, everyone was either scared of her or worshipped her. 

Why? You didn’t know, and you weren’t sure you wanted to. The shop she owned wasn’t spacious by any means, huddled in by other stalls scrambling for money. But that doesn’t mean the illegal parts she dealt, alongside the weapons and orders she took went unnoticed. But it was easier to pretend it did. 

After some time, when the markets begin to dwindle, she turns to you with a knot in her brow. 

Jabbing a thumb towards the hovering shell, she leans towards you, “The hell is that, kid?” 

Honestly, you’re surprised it took her this long to ask. After some time, you thought it went past unnoticed with how busy it had been, or that she had forgotten it was there. Apparently you were wrong. 

Nipping at your lower lip, you answer. “A project I’m working on,” disbelief screws at her expression and you quickly add “it’s just my way of lugging things around. Something that’s nice to look at, you know? Instead of the droids and bags.” Nervously, you tug at the muffle around your neck meant to keep the sand out. 

The pregnant pause is enough to have you teetering, ready to ditch your post and find another way off the planet. Your worries subside when she coughs out a jovial cackle. “The rich kriffs up in the inner rings will eat that shit up.” She stands to her full height, moving to sift through a chest nearby. It’s full of parts that people would trade in for others similar to it. 

She returns to you seconds later, smirking. “Hold out your hand.” Confused, you hesitate, unsure of what to do. Annoyed, she tugs you at the wrist and forces your hand palm up. Vaarie settles a heavy weight within the confines of your palm, lapsing your fingers over the mystery underneath. 

Before you can get a word in, she swishes her finger. “It’s a gift,” she shrugs, “I think it’ll come in handy if you’re building shit like that.” Vaarie nods her head to the carrier, folding her arms. “Plus, you were more of a help than I expected - which is saying a lot with so many of your kind scurrying your way out here.”

You purse your lips. “Our kind?” 

“Refugee’s.” She remarks simply, now leaning against the counter. “Since the Empire is out of commission everyone is running somewhere.”

“What do you mean?” You push. Now you’re the one inching closer, eager. 

Vaarie cocks her head to the side, the beginnings of interest pricking at her in detail. This is usually when you run away, leaving the mold of society around you meant sticking out, it meant that you were that much closer to being found. 

And just when you think she’s going to urge you forth on another chase, just as she did once already, Vaarie cuts it short without so much as a bat of her eye. “The Empire is losing wind, some resistance is taking back the inner rings. Not that it matters much out here.” She shrugs. 

You nod, slowly, absorbing the newfound knowledge. “Are they winning?” Stupid, you think, you don’t need to know more. You shouldn’t need to. But you can’t help yourself, heart thrumming and hope tipping it’s way back inside you. 

“Think so,” Vaarie leaves the counter, stopping at the store owned terminal and enters what you assume is the locks keyguard, “what’s it to you?” She asks, looking over her shoulder. 

Thinking fast, you spew “You said the rich would like my work. I just want to know who I’m selling to once it’s over.” 

The older woman scoffs until it tumbles into full out laughter, and when she’s returned to your side there’s a visible gleam in her hue. “You’re catching on quick, kid.” Waving her hand ahead of you, you realize she’s directing you out. You do as asked, the carrier roving behind you. 

When your hand loosens, you realize you’d forgotten that she had given you something. Stopping outside the gate, you open your hand and swear you could have choked. When you glance up, you find her staring at you, bemused. 

Your jaw slackens when you look back down again, then back to her in quick recession. Eyes wide, you swallow thickly. 

“This is _beskar_.”

“Sure is.”

Vaarie is grazing past you before you can say anything else, chirping a goodbye over her shoulder as she fades into the darkened streets. 

* * *

Your breath stills in your lungs, a suffocating pressure on the verge of eruption. And the dread that succumbs to the lowest depths of your soul escalates the gnawing horror, a friction that amplifies by the second. 

The little one holds onto you as he never has before, a cruel mix of terror and melancholy raking tremors down his body. You can’t calm him, as much as you want to, because you yourself are the furthest from it. It’d been so close, too close, a bounty hunter followed by a team of troopers tracked the two of you down. 

It’d occurred at day break, and they followed from one planet to the next, a never ending cycle of a chase that sought to disassemble you. The stress was almost too much to bear, and you know it deep inside your heart that as long as Grogu is with you, they’d find him. 

Two force-sensitives traveling together wouldn’t have lasted long, you knew this from the beginning, and yet you tried for it. Made way through the embers of doubt and tempted fate, strung along an innocent child because you were selfish; saw him as your own - as if you were the one to carry him and birth him - that you were his true mother in both blood and name, and the thought of letting him go made you _ache_ in ways that were never thought possible before. 

Whatever was left of the Empire, they could track you both. Follow a trail you weren’t even aware you were leaving. The source had become enhanced with the both of you together, a target rooted in you both. 

And so, distraught and thoughtless, you had decided to return to Carajam. It’s the last place you had been safe, and the last location to host a familiar person you had felt secure with. Vaarie had taken a great liking to you, had even asked you to stay. You had declined, and while you have not returned for your safety, you certainly had for Grogu’s. 

The streets are full of vendors and entertainers, and the like is more irritable than they ever were. Gathering in your way as if they knew danger was nipping at your heels. Burying your hands further into the little one, you cut through as many as possible, not bothering to apologize. 

You don’t breathe until you’re inside her shop, Vaarie twisting to meet you, shock evident as she stiffens. 

“Ayres?” Your surname dances from her lips, and you wince at the sound of it. 

Her attention drifts from the horror of your expression down to the bundle in your arms. Her complexion contours into a furrow of disbelief, her eyes eventually landing on the suspended crib. Her brow flits up, a momentary caution that she soon abandons. 

Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, “I need your help,” you utter, devastated, and the croak in your voice says as much. “What I want to ask from you is dangerous, but I beg that you hear me out.” 

“That’s a baby.” She whispers, a hush falling down on the two of you. 

Without a moment's further notice, you nod, rushed. “I have a bounty on me, larger than his. If I stay with him any longer it will kill him.” You squeeze him, Grogu whimpering but he returns your sentiment, burrowing his head into your chest. “I can’t protect him anymore.” When the declaration leaves your mouth it hits hard, the weight of a star thrown into you, and you burn. 

Reality sets in, numbing and engrossing all at once. A part of you had hoped you could figure it out, find a way to keep him at your side. But standing here now, pleading, you realize it's never been a possibility.

Pointing to the carrier behind you, she licks her lips. “The child has been in there this entire time, hasn’t it?” 

“I’m sorry I lied.” 

Vaarie shakes her head. “Who’s after you, after...the baby?” 

This was a moment of truth, and if you had to kill her to get out alive, you knew you had no choice in the matter for Grogu’s sake. “Whatever’s left of the Empire.”

A pregnant pause lapses, filling the void where there had been nothing, conjoining with white static and erratic heartbeats. Twitching under her hard gaze, you further explain “I’m one of the few who survived The Purge.”

Her eyes widen the size of moons, her mouth agape. The connection falls into place, exempt in everything but trepidation and awe all at once, then a disturbing calm sweeps over the room. You hesitate, ready to reach for your blaster if needed, images of death flash in your stead and you frown.

And then, with every step she takes, a soft smile reaches her eyes, crinkles at every scar and blemish. “I’m already an outlaw, whatever you ask of me, it can’t be worse than what I’ve already done.”

Relief floods you, your heart quickening in glee as you pace closer. “Thank you,” you breathe, shoulders sagging and lungs expanding. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath, fingers dug into the boy in your arms. 

You sense it then, the unnatural rift of bloodthirst, and you are overwhelmed within the second it steeps at your shoulders, slumping at your gut. Grogu can feel it too, big eyes glossy and a sniffle kept to your chest. Glancing down at the little one, greatly encumbered with glum, you wipe a thumb over his back in circles. 

The clock was ticking, if you didn’t do it now Grogu wouldn’t have a chance beyond the life you’d given him. “I need you to take him,” Vaarie goes rigid, her composure remains congealed however, and you push forward, “hide him, make sure he doesn’t die.”

When she says nothing, a surge of urgency amplifies, roaming you without consensus. “Please, I’ll do anything, you’re the only person I’ve-”

“I’ll take him.” Vaarie straightens her shoulders. “But what about you? Where will you go?” 

Admittedly, you hadn’t thought that far ahead. You were never one to plan every detail, and your master had scolded you for it time and time again. “What I’ll do doesn’t matter, he does.” Shifting from one foot to the other, drawn cruelty marching closer. It was now or never. 

You pull Grogu tight, you’re alight in outrage, sorrow, distaste; it’s a masked sin under the Jedi rule, yet it pulls at you all the same. Mouth trembling, you close your eyes and bury your lips to his head, breathe in his scent until it stains you. 

There was little you could do in your attempts to further ensure his safety, except a singular concept you had learnt in Coruscant. Never practiced on, but you had the general idea of it down. Placing a palm atop his head, you hum to him, rocking him in a fluid, calming motion. 

You too, had to ease yourself, or it wouldn’t work. “Just give me a moment,” you whisper, Vaarie nods and takes a step back. 

Awash in a vibrant storm, you flinch, and harness what you can of the surrounding energy. As you do, you continue to soothe Grogu, a mixture of peace and affection that extends to him fully. The shaking has stopped, the tragedy in his heart slowing to a reverend rate. Like this, in this clarity, you nearly break. 

Hot tears tempting to fall from your eyes, shut tight, your lower lip pulls into a stray sneer. 

When you’ve come to terms with it, with a life without him, you utter “I love you, little one, more than all the stars in the galaxy. I always will.” And by the maker, the noise he makes, so full of adornment; the way he looks to you, absolution in his love. You remind yourself you’ll kill him if you can’t let go. It’s the only thing pushing you forward with your plan. 

And just like that, his memory is wisped away, clenched in the depths of what you hold close to you. Skin made ash, laughter and joy and love turned to stone. A never ending blockade keeps him out, just as you will it, and if you had the ability to do so with everything else you would have. 

Regretfully, you do not have the talent to do so. You’d never gotten that far. You work with what skill you have, and upon opening your eyes, the distress it must have caused him sent him to sleep. Vaarie looks on in awe, wonderment laced in her hue. 

Returning her attention, you step forward, trembling arms outstretched her way. It takes a moment longer than you’d like, but she swallows him up in her muscular arms, gentle in all the ways you hadn’t expected. Without consent, consuming fright claws at your bones, finds fixtures of space to cement itself within you. 

You’d be bitter if you had the heart to be. Rather, your eyes sting, your head buzzes, and inflamed tears soak at your cheeks. You're a mess, and before she can say anything, you whisper your thanks with one last look at the child; memorizing every flicker of his ear, the sweet tumble of his sleep; the way his fingers clutch at anything warm in this state. 

You had to leave before you took it all back.

Steering on your heel, you leave without another word and return to the world outside. You had to be strong, for him, for you little boy.

Collected despite the duress you search the area, spotting a broad shouldered man, head to toe in armor. Stormtroopers behind him, a dead give away. 

It was time you fulfill your promise, and lead the fuckers as far away from Grogu as possible. You wouldn’t let them touch _your_ son, you’d sooner die than allow it. With a deep breath, you reach for your blaster, take aim, and _shoot._


	3. Chapter III: Lah'mu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback is insane, thank you all so much! You have no idea how much this helps, especially with everything going on right now. I really hope you enjoy this chapter, I'm pretty happy with it so I hope you all are too!  
> Tumblr: buttercup--bee
> 
> EDIT: this chapter and the next few will be taking place before Din even gets the bounty on Grogu by a year a so.

You wake with a start. 

Succumbed within the confines of one terror after the other, sweat is slick down the nape of your neck, folded between the valley of your breasts and the dip of your back. The oxygen practically punched from your lungs - and they burn, as hot and torrent as wildfire and you’re shifting upwards grappling at your neck in your tempered attempts to catch your breath. 

Eyes wide open in panic, you scan across the small space of your house, investigating the darkness that swallows it all whole. Perching off your bed you bend over, hands sliding through your hair and dragged down your neck. 

It hadn’t been too vivid, merely snapshots and stilling horrors that remained focused on all that had transpired before and after you’d given away Grogu. 

You don’t feel it, not until the hot stream of tears drops to your bare legs and you whimper. The pit in your stomach rises until your throat is lodged, dry and burnt, chest inflamed as memory after memory filtered through in accordance to your tragedy. 

The death of your kind, the loss of Grogu, your capture and detainment, and the varmency that spoke of it all had scarred your flesh, encumbered the scape of your spine, the nape of your neck, and all but consumed your heart.

You blink, souse kissing at your cheeks, eyes stinging and you squeeze, your body clamping inwards in recollection. That crimson glare, devoid of all emotion but that of fury, devout loyalty to ‘order’. Trembling, you pull your knees up to your chest and brace your head against them. 

Alone. You were left to the wolves and no one was there to save you. And all you wanted, needed, deserved was to be held. Just for a little, even if it meant nothing, you missed the warmth that came from it. The simple yet necessary contact had dissipated from your life long ago, three years had passed, and no strings to claim you. 

Bonds were worthless if it only led to the death of them. And as far as the Empire was concerned, you needed to remain missing, dead, otherwise they’d come back. And that - _that_ you couldn’t allow. 

Even if it meant your happiness. 

* * *

It’s days later when it happens, there’s no warning, no static current that had warned you the same way it had as a child. 

No, all you get in supplication is the rapid knock at your door, the shrill screams that echo from the other side in a deafening wail. You’re on your feet in minutes, abandoning the ring stabilizer you’d been commissioned to repair. Sliding the door open with a clank, you’re met with an unruly sight. 

Oroson, a eight year old boy of the nearby family closest to you kneels, blood slick and dark at his temples. The same child who'd visit with fresh bread and bright acquisition in your work. 

And at his side is his mother, faring far worse than he is, black eye, split lip, and from the looks of it a broken jaw; the slacken fracture hanging idly on her faint person. 

Wide eyed, you take in the scene, unable to comprehend until Oroson is at your legs and sobbing for you to help. Eyes rimmed red, a bloodied nose and with the weak temper of his hand, broken fingers. The moment you meet his gaze you flare, the distant memory of Grogu wreaking havoc until you’ve finally accepted the child into your home, dragging his mother in behind him. 

Laying her down on your bed, you scramble about the small house, sifting through medications and castings. As you work, seeking out a particular needle you’d need for injection, you tell Oroson to breathe. His quivering form is small and frail and devastated. Pale too, brimmed in the fluorescent light with a horror grazed sniffle. 

“Breathe,” you repeat, soothing despite your own fears, mind racing from one explanation to the next. Stopping at the bedside, you begin your work, cleaning out her wounds with a forced, steady hand. As you do so, you probe “What happened?” 

Oroson shakes his head, the dark curls atop his head matted and unable to follow the movement. Rather than answer, he mumbles help once more, sobbing and sniffling and you can’t help the ache that tugs at your chest. 

You give him a moment, injecting your numbing agent into the back base of his mother’s neck, the swell of the thick fluid bubbling beneath her skin. You rub against it in tight knit circles, spreading the liquid outwards to encourage the agent. Blood rushes in your ears, pounds at the particular spot behind your eyes, temples twitching and splurging out spots of pain. 

Turning to give Oroson one last glance, you say again “I need to know what happened sweetie,” fliting back to the limp woman, you spill out the cast and wrap it at her neck, handling the solidifying dropper until the cast has stiffened. 

“Monsters,” he gasps finally, eyes steady on his mother as blurry as they may be, “they took my papa and sister.” You freeze for a moment, his only sibling having been born two cycles ago. A babe. Ensuring to not frighten him further you continue your process, cleaning out the wounds available to you, and slowly moving downwards to remove her clothing. 

“Monsters?” you repeat, fiddling with the bactaspray in preparation, “do you know where they came from?” 

He shakes his head, hoarse and downtrodden, “No.” Stars, the way he croaks it out has you stumbling, wishing you could have been there, done something, anything. But even you know you’d have been in the way, perhaps made things worse. Force-sensitive or not, the mere action of it would have alerted the Empire. You’re certain of it.

Finishing up your work, you bring your worn blanket up to his mothers shoulders, and make your way to him and sit down. Gently, you prod at him, checking his body for anything worse than what you can see. 

You wait a moment, allow the trembling lip of his to settle and his lungs to fill with air before you preface “Could you tell me what they looked like, if they asked for anything?” 

As you work on him, finding his fingers are in fact broken, he lets out a quick sob, hiccups, and answers. “They...they wore masks, and had big blasters.” You nod, finishing up the wrap you’ve mended to his fingers, “and I think they said my dad would - would sell good.”

Pausing, you meet his eyes, twisting your mouth. “Are you sure that’s what they said?” 

He nods, your stomach plummeting. This wasn’t the doings of a blundered Empire, it was slavers.

* * *

The decision had been made, though you weren’t entirely sure it would work. Lah’mu resided in the outer rim, located further than the New Republic ventured. Of course, you were sure if you sent a distress beacon they’d come, but that didn’t mean it would be soon, let alone in a time frame that’d actually help. 

Bo’mah, the only port with such utilities is your stop, and as you venture the bustling hub you can’t help but feel out of place. It’d been so long since you visited a city, let alone a port. Starships of mass variety darken in the distance, and you are well aware this is where your income prospers. Many visitors send their parts your way for fixing, but only because the cantina’s owner here referred them to you constantly. 

Weaving your way through the stream of bodies in the street, you search for said cantina, it’d be faster to send a signal there than wait at the bay office for help - droids were slow and maintenance was nonexistent in these parts. 

Upon entering the smoke filled bar, you scan the dept building, lowlights, dim music, it’s hollow yet effective ring of chatter from it’s patrons, and the stagnant stench of alcohol wafts to you in waves. You don’t mind it necessarily, it reminds you of life in a way, that it still exists beyond your house. 

Careful to not meet any stray gaze that might come your way, you waltz up to the bar and lean forward, and in a vigilant, playful tone utter “Anwyll,” 

The Kessurian flounders, spinning around haphazardly until he meets your eyes. It takes him a minute, but the second he makes you out, a smile cracks at his features, large enough to crinkle at the eyes. 

“Aryes,” he flounders over, large arms spread in welcome. “It’s been months!” 

You nod, your own smile faint despite yourself. “I need a favor.” 

Anwyll steps before you, hands resting against the bar as he soaks you in. “And what’s the favor?” He intones, as curious as he is cautious. 

There’s no point in hiding the frown that tugs at your lips, the full dread that piques at your mind, another weight to your conscience. “I need a message sent to the inner rim,” he lifts his brow line, horns following in accordance. You know he’ll accept without pause, and you hurriedly pipe in “and I need it to get to them now.” 

His reaction is just as you expected, jarring and rigid all at once, amber eyes alight in concern. “Today?” he intones, “that’s impossible, you know that.” For anyone else, it would be, but you’re not anyone else. 

“Don’t lie to me,” you whisper, bringing yourself closer to him, “we both know the receptors you’ve got down-”

“Okay,” he bursts, “okay, fine, but don’t you ever mention it out loud again. Is that understood?” 

You nod, hiding the smirk simply begging to crawl out from the depths of your glee, finally taking a seat at the barstool positioned beside you. While stern, he ends up smiling again, jovial at your reappearance. Without another word he steps away and prepares a drink, and it’s offered to you without more than a generous nod. 

Staring down at it, you curl your lower lip. “You don’t have to drink it, but I know how much you like the taste.” Anwyll is soft then, kind, sweet, and when you return his gaze you find only affection. 

It wouldn’t hurt to have a taste, you decide, it’s been long enough and you didn’t feel unsafe. Not yet. “Thank you.”

A few in the distance call to him, and he’s waving you off for the moment with promises to return for your message. Bringing the cup to your mouth, you watch as he scurries around, fulfilling one order after the other. Absently, you pend on Oroson. You were sure they were safe in your home, not many knew its location and if they did, it was easy to take the wrong path there. 

At least from experience that’s what you’ve gathered. You’d also left behind your tracking system on, if anything within half a mile moved the system picked it up. You were more trustful in that than anything else.

Setting the cup down, you clasp your hands together beside it, it’s toll is faint but you recognize it. It acts as an effective conciliate, one you’d depended on when you’d made homebase here. And the numbing pain is familiar, reaching back and pulling forth the little one. 

His coo’s, the gentle whimpers, and the giggling - maker the giggling. You could cry, well and truly, here in the middle of a kriffing cantina if you could. And in a way, Oroson reminds you of him. There weren't any real similarities between the native child and your son. Only that they were young and in your need of support. 

It was crude to do so, unfair to both, but since his absence you’ve searched for another to substitute the gap if only a little. Oroson had done well even in his lack of appearance in your day to day life. His eyes are just as dark and loving as Grogu’s. And sometimes, before the sun dipped behind the jutting cliffs and rolling hills, he’d visit to just watch; examine the fiddle of your fingers, the nimble retention in which you worked with parts. 

It’d mesmerized him, and you always welcomed the company. 

Tracing patterns on the bar, your stupor is sedated in an instant, the low hum of chatter snapped like a branch, quick and effective and nipped your focus in the bud. 

Slowly but surely, you swivel in the direction that has caused the silence, and are met with a bone chilling perception; familiarity dawned in beskar. 

The tell-tale sheen of steel flits across the room, your breath caught in your throat in an haphazard attempt to school your expression. The last time you saw a Mandalorian, you were hauled off to an Imperial cruiser and didn’t see light in years. And so, when the blank visor skims across your figure you physically flinch. 

If it grabs his attention he doesn’t show it, continuing forward until he’s found a table in the far corner of the cantina. The perfect angle to keep tabs on the entrance, as well as the whole of it. Which meant you too.

Still, no one utters a word, lips sealed and bodies taut. Some don’t blink, others hold their breath as you do. The sight is as spectacular as it is horrifying. And everyone was thinking the same thing. 

Why is there a Mandalorian on Lah’mu? No one came here, no one hid here - _except for me_ , you remind yourself. 

Did someone here know who you are, who you were, what you could do? For so long that had seemed unlikely, the planet didn’t host bounty hunters, let alone killers. It is home to farmers and small bound traders, an afterthought. 

It was the equivalent of a backwater dredge without the dealers and warlords and death. Though now, you realize that has changed, even if it had happened over night or in the length of a moon cycle, and perhaps more than slavers have laid claim without anyone knowing. Your anxiety reiterates before you can - 

_What is a Mandalorian doing on Lah’mu?_

Was it you? Heart pittering, you dig your heels into the steel beam of the bar and return to your drink, throat swelling under the undetermined threat, heart begging to thrust out of your body, and when it is unable to do so, your chest aches and you hold back a gag. 

Rabidly, you scan the area yourself, and dread the knowledge you are aware won’t change no matter how you wish it to. There were only two ways in, two ways out. Front entrance and the back entrance. You’d all but forgotten your quest for the New Republic, clammy hands flexing in your lap as the turmoil tears at your insides. 

It had to be you. Mandalorians were famed bounty hunters and assassins, more than likely to never miss a target, and this one looked particularly dangerous. Peril nips at your heels, the urge to run for it stressed at the worn muscle of your legs. 

You’re not thinking clearly, not when you leave your seat, nor when you pit in front of Anwyll interrupting a patron. 

“Send a distress signal to the New Republic, tell them slavers have stationed themselves here.” He’s wide eyed, gawking at you in shuddered shock.

He must sense you intend to continue because he’s reaching forward, pulling at your forearm in warning. “Not so loud,” he heeds, “and not here.” Anwyll’s expression has morphed from one of alarm to agitation. 

Those waiting for their orders at the bar wear dismay high and well, coursing through your mention of slavers seizing conversation from one group to another. You didn’t have the luxury of time, not here, not with the appearance of a Mandalorian and your marketable value. With his personage clamoring in the thick atmosphere you can barely think straight. All you want is out.

Proceeding with a hoarse notch at the back of your throat, you further exclaim “I don’t know how many they’ve taken already, but we need help soon. I don’t know how long any survivors will last and we don’t have the manpower to deal with them - let alone wait for them to make ground.”

Satisfied with the information you’d gotten across, you bolt. You don’t care for the disquiet you’ve raked into the room, only that you make it out in one piece. 

The intention is simple really, get out of the cantina, find your speeder and leave without chancing a glance back. No need to add another burden and catch the attention of any other sort; all the folk that convene here tend to have eager hands and desperate lines they’re willing to cross if something seems amiss, more so when there’s a price. Even here on such a secluded world, and especially now with the newfound news you’ve just shed. 

Your mistake had lied in not checking, in not ensuring that the bounty hunter remained in his seat, that you had managed to escape without mention. It didn’t require much effort, only a flicker of your eye at the door. 

But you didn’t. No, in your undisciplined haste you barged through the exit with a bang, solely focused on your way out. 

Of course, with your lack of luck, that misstep cost you everything. 

“If you know they’re here,” modulation intoned alongside the deep timbre of a man, you jerk and spin and open your mouth in unadulterated shock, not that you had performed the action on your own. The large, meaty palm of the perpetrator had done that, his hold unyielding “then you should know where they are.” 

Your arm aches, his thick fingers digging into the tender flesh just under your shoulder. All explanation escapes you, the air in your lungs billowing out in a dried exhale, limbs trembling under the black scape of the Mandalorians visor. You can’t help the reaction, only solidify it under the short squeeze he gives you. 

Fright convulses deep inside your gut, the roil pinching hard enough you strain. He’s expecting an answer. One you didn’t have and it’s not to your benefit. All consuming you can’t help but look at his closed fist, the way it envelopes you and you want to hide; he’s close enough to bring you to your knees if need be, have you cuffed and returned to the remnants of the Empire with ease. 

Despite the whims of the Force at your grasp, you have not been trained beyond a padawan. You were however taught the extensions of your orders history, and are well aware of the Mandalorians war with the Jedi. 

With your lack of training, a one on one fight with a fully equipped Mandalorian meant your capture, not a renown victory that ends with him ass up in the dirt. You weren’t stupid even if evidence proved otherwise. Someone smarter than you, wiser, braver, they would have fought or learnt in their time tucked away, read more, trained more, _become more._

All you’ve done is wallow away, too afraid to make anything of yourself or your future. In spite of the Empires fall, you remained stuck, encumbered with their shadow as you had not gone untouched and still bear the wrath of their desires. What they had envisioned for this galaxy meant the end of yours, and it had almost killed you. 

And you still couldn’t let go, forget and move forward. You were uncertain of how to or if you ever could. Maker, you hadn’t reached out to the Force since escaping your Imperial imprisonment. 

A moment passes and you realize you haven’t answered, willing yourself to spit something out and perform to the best of your ability. “I haven’t seen them.” 

The admission somehow embarrassed you. As if you were caught in a lie though that isn’t the case.

The sheen of steel glints in the dulled daylight, the only tangible beskar his helmet, the haul of it tipped to the side. “Then how do you know?” his grip loosens, not enough to release you, though it is...assuring? The blunt tip of his thumb pressed to your pulse point, seemingly a subconscious effort in comfort, whether it be to ease his prey and coax information. 

It's then that you can sense it almost, the bare tip of an ever growing vine. There is no end, only a beginning that entwines you and the Mandalorian before you, the sensation reminiscent of being held under water, faint tendrils of the unknown binding. The unfamiliarity of it dawns in a rush, bleeding you whole.

Blinking rapidly you tear your arm from him, aghast and confused and above all else daunted. You feel it still, the ever longing etch ingrained at your bones, singeing the very core of you, the flow of it dusting amidst the ends of the _Force_.

A tangent of something not your own, something diffused and odd cultivates. It vanishes as quickly as it had come, its electric pulse sweeping into the air and lifting from your body. 

You refuse to concede to whatever had just taken place, the way it had entrapped and invigorated all at once. It isn’t something you understood and it’d be best if you left it at that, especially with the one at the other end of the rope being a source of nightly terrors; even if he wasn’t the Mandalorian who’d taken pleasure at the cause of your pain, they wore the same armor, swore to the same creed. 

It was all the same to you.

Licking at the plumb of your mouth you inhale, “Why do you want to know?” before he can begin the consummation of an answer you add “Be honest, I can’t waste my time on lies.” that catches you off guard, the brash tone you take with him. 

Especially for someone in your situation, unable to properly fight and a bounty hanging over your head - and to a Mandalorian no less. 

“My puck broke,” he’s brought it out before you have the time to consider it, the dead light damp in the hand he once held you in, “and my bounty is part of Carja Rim, the slaver coterie you mentioned that’s here on Lah’mu.”

You weren’t wrong, he’s a bounty hunter, one willing to go after an entire group of slavers at that for a jab at a single target, or that’s the insinuation you are being led to believe. Reeling from both the aftereffect of his touch and revelation you nod, bringing your arms to your midsection, slipping back a step. 

Above all else, he isn’t lying. It’s a sixth sense you’d garnered as a padawan, and it’s all you’ve felt safe enough to use when need be. Be that as it may it’d been years since you had, but nonetheless it helps ease the nerves. 

He isn’t here for you, that you could be certain of. Which meant there is a possibility of dealing with the issue until the New Republic arrives. 

There had been a reason you’d been reluctant to come here and report the travesty. New Republic attention meant the Empire’s attention, and while you had thought of it eventually your morality and heart won out, and now you’re here. Though a Mandalorian had never been part of that plan. 

It’s then you go forth, ambivalence entwined in your confidence, a sort you put forth as a shroud of power. One you hoped shone bright more than the twinge of horror that still clambered at you. 

“I mean it,” you warn, “I can’t let anyone get hurt.” A curt nod is all you get from him, hip slant to the side and large hand positioned at his belt. “I have a boy, Oroson, under my care. He saw them.” 

“Where is he?” 

You stumble, frowning, though you answer all the same. “My home,”

He’s readying his vambrace, tapping at the various sanctions until he’s got a holo screen glowing, as if demanding you tell him without bothering to ask. Not that you would have said a word regardless. 

“If you want to see him it will be with me,” you warn, “I’m not giving you coordinates and sending you off.” Your incredulous tone blanches at the reflection of yourself of his helmet, a frown pitted and nose scrunched. 

Silence encases the both of you, the dying light of the sun isolating. You think he’s going to drop it, leave you and get on with his bounty alone. 

Then, steady and considerate, he agrees. “Take me to them, then.”

Momentarily shocked, you hum and the second you move he’s following. The trek to your homestead’s a two hour journey of nonplus silence. The smallest of movements ensnared you in barbed wire, suffocating and all consuming, and you are thankful he doesn’t make small talk. He didn’t seem the type to. And he never gives you reason to abandon him on the trail.

That doesn’t scratch the intolerable itch that embosses your mind, on the cusp of jolting away and never returning. You may have confirmed his intentions, but a thimble of unease is present all the same. You can’t change your nature after running, it all roped in distrust, which has become your life, and reason is no longer your friend despite your want of normalcy. 

The Empire had done that, you ruefully think, and so much more. Sometimes, late at night you stare up at the canopy, thinking of ways to dismantle their horrid ensemble, but it quickly turns into death and blood and rage - not a holy endeavor to make things right. It scares you more than what your life has become, of what you could become if you’re not careful, if you are unable to learn how to let go. 

You're pulled from your thoughts when you no longer hear his footsteps, the leaden bounce of steel absent. When you pivot his direction your eyes are caught by an undeniable sight. In the stretch between the both of you and home, heady smoke lifts to the sky, swirls and twines with the oncoming storm. 

_No, no, no, no..._

The deep bellies of ashen mist halts you as well, chin jutted upwards and eyes wide open. You take it in, finally absorbing the evidence reigned havoc. Then, without thought nor perception, you’ve set off at a pace you hadn’t been capable of since Grogu was in your care. 

Without need of convincing, the Mandalorian is not far behind, and it takes reaching your little settlement to heed your anticipated trepidation. The loitered cinders clump together along the smoldered grass; like a famished beast the fumes swallow what you’ve built whole, eager ash sweeping onto your form in surging frisson and roaring flame flares up into the abyss.

A sickly stench follows suit, the sort you’d smelt in the execution of the Jedi order. In war and in death.

Agape, incredulity hammers at your chest, the stars falling into you the way they cascade to moons. Fleeting and horrifying, the Mandalorian’s presence at your side is now furthest from your problems. 

You couldn’t sense either of them. Oroson’s benign ethos or his mother’s faint spirit. The Force had no grasp on them, no hold, and all you can do to hold back the tears from yet another failure is hold your breath. 

Awash in sorrow you narrow in on the blackened state of the structure you’d once called home, a scrambled memory of Oroson’s hungry thirst for knowledge plunges into you; as a saber made of night had once done so long ago, buried itself under the crook of your collarbone, and withheld all notion of thought. 

Just as Grogu had slipped through your fingers, Oroson had as well. Except this time you hadn’t given way to a child you’d bonded your soul to, no, you couldn’t feel Oroson’s life beyond the stars as you could your son. There was simply nothing. 

_The boy and his mother had burnt down with your house._

It is then you are devoured inch by inch, an unbefitting fury quelling until you are seething. 

Without paying his helmet any deed of attentiveness, you wrap yourself inwards until you’ve all but gasped, “How much are you being paid for one?” 

You’re met with the crackle of fire and a disturbed aura, “Hundred-eighty credits.” Modulation and all, you imprint the baritone to memory. 

“I want to hire you,” you count your savings in mind, flickering over towards the clotted tree’s that hid all of your worth, “I’m willing to pay however much you want.” 

Hesitation, something you didn’t expect from a man that exuded faculty, sterling death and dexterity. It doesn’t hinder the process however.

“That’s quite a price,” he warns, “you don’t know how many of them there are, yo-”

You whip to face him, and you’re sure the expression you adorn is one of vigor, the sort that taints blood and ambition. “I’ve already given you my offer, in exchange I want them all dead. All of them. Not one left.”

A tense silence seeps between the two of you, yourself arched to meet what you assume are his eyes, the visor merely a reflection of what you see. A rage unlike any other and perhaps, as though you had never sworn to allow it, you’ve cracked. 

The Mandalorian takes note and says “And what if I can’t?” 

Without delay you ground out “I’ll be there to make sure you do.” This takes him off guard, head cocked, height the embodiment of power, of what anyone would expect of a Mandalorian, “Do we have a deal?” 

A beat, then he’s looking to the engorged death of your house, and nods. 

“We have a deal.”


	4. Chapter IV: Carja Rim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another HUGE thanks for all the comments and kudo's! It really pushes me forward and always helps me when I begin to have doubts! You guys are amazing! 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as buttercup--bee!

Din hadn’t expected such vigor from you. At first appearance you were small, exhausted, though had an air about you. One of gentle charisma. 

The Mandalorian hadn’t found any personal detail that might reveal beyond that. You’d been willing to risk your neck, even led him, a bounty hunter, without knowing a single thing about him. He could have killed you for all you knew, but the trouble lurking around the corner was more important. 

In the silence of your shared journey he’d grown to respect it, just a little. 

That preservation left once they’d arrived at your house, and in its wake of ash and smoke revealed a fury unlike any he’d encountered. He didn’t know you, but he knew enough to gather that this rage was new, an awoken sensation that grabbed at Din as well. 

It pierced deep in his sternum when you made eye contact, a glint of esteemed disgust growing. He strains, stiffens under the opposing glare. As if it were a tangible thread he could pluck, and you’d surely bite at any attempt made to do so. 

And those words, your confirmation that you would follow to ensure the job was done; well, in that moment he decides you are far more deadly than you let on. 

Of course he agrees regardless, from the look of you, those innocents you’d spoken of had been burned alive.

However, he isn’t one to take on a deal any further unless he receives at least half the payment up front. Your property had just been turned to dust. All that was left is smoldered iron and smoke. What could you possibly have left to offer?

“I’ll need payment up front,” he intones, “at least half.” The explanation sets itself in the atmosphere between the pair, and you nod, a stern line at your lips. 

You’re moving without a word, and he assumes he’s supposed to follow, so he does. Trails with the distinct clink of hard steel and leather boots he’s grown so used to. It ensures that you’re aware he’s following as well, never looking back to make sure he remains. 

Din’s a little confused when you lead him back into the forest, in the opposite direction of the path you’d led him through. The thicket of bushes and vines ticks at his legs, thighs even, and you sway with ease - obviously having memorized the way. An insight he was, sadly, not in possession of. 

He nearly trips twice over the heavy, barren roots that rise from the ground. You pause after a time, clock the area in little circles, then sigh in relief once you’ve seemingly found what you were searching for. 

Its destination isn’t too far from the house that used to stand, he notes, and watches as you sweep at the ground with your hands. Once you’ve gone deep enough, you scoop beneath a thick root, dragging out a medium sized chest. There are carvings that decorate it, in a language he doesn’t know nor recognize. 

It only has his interest for a second, it’s hum breathing it to life as if it were more sentient than not. You run your hands down its hood and it clicks, opening the chest with ease. 

Inside lies a few leather bags, a bit larger than the average person would keep, a blaster, a bo-staff he thinks? It’s folded up, the weapon made of a sheen black steel he’s never seen before. And alongside it’s grooves the same language indented, heavier and deeper at what he assumes is the grip. 

His chest tightens when the familiar gleam of beskar is the next in line, the block pure and wide, and perhaps the largest ingot of the metal he’s seen yet. Furrowing his brow, Din kneels beside you and unlike before, you don’t flinch at the sudden movement, instead you rummage only to bare more secrets beneath a cotton cloth. The same portioned bags that sat up on top underneath. 

You turn to him, your knee’s dug into the ground, “There’s seven-thousand credits in here,” waving at the satchels, you grab one and lean closer, handing it to him, “and the beskar.” he looks to it again while you settle into your position, clasping your hands between your closed legs. 

“Where’d you get all this?” the question isn’t important, he hadn’t even meant to ask it. 

“I didn’t know bounty hunters questioned their employers.” It’s less serious and more of a jest, but it’s ragged and empty.

Impassively, you maintain your gaze, examining the helmet as if you could see right through it. A piece of him almost believes it. Curling his fingers into the thick leather, he says nothing. 

With that you stand, dusting off your knees while bent over, pausing to grab not only another bag of credits, but the blaster and bo-staff as well. Standing to your full height you hand the other bag to him. 

“That’s at least three-thousand.” Without a glance back at him, you’ve gathered a worn belt, the holster hanging on by a thread. At the sling of your arm a woolen sweater hangs, and something he can’t make out just on top of it.

He can’t help but just watch, towering above you once he’s decided to stand as well. The deft work of your fingers as you apply the belt at your hips, sliding the blaster in easily. You slip on the sweater that had been on your arm, wrapping a thickset muffler about your neck afterwards.

When he’d first seen you he was genuinely surprised you didn’t already adorn what you wore now. Lah’mu is not kind to its inhabitants, it’s cold and damp and the ocean filled air nipped even at him.

One might think that would be the end of it, but then you grab for another leather belt - it’s in much better condition than the former - the long holster now attached from your shoulder and around your waist, and you set the bo-staff just behind you until it’s peeking out from behind your neck. A nestled holster he hadn’t seen must be attached.

Suddenly, you twist his way, asking, “Is that enough or do you need more?” 

Without much thought he shakes his head no, the price well above what he expected, and to add it alongside his other employer? He’d be set for a while before he had to take on any big jobs again. 

“This is enough.” 

You nod, pleased, but there is no smile. “I’m glad,” with that you seal the chest and push it back inside its hiding spot, covering it until it’s no longer noticeable. Then, with an inscrutable complexion, you purse your lips while peering up at him. 

“Can your helmet track?” 

A pause, “Yes.” 

“We should move then.”

* * *

The trail left behind had been eerily easy to find.

They didn’t even try to cover it up, though he presumes they would have thought the fire would have done that for them. Like most bounties, in his experience, believe when arson is committed. It _doesn’t._

Din leads you far behind your rabbled home, tension solid and murky. 

It weighs on him as a reeling storm would, as does your pique. It drills at his sternum in an odd, consuming way. The sort that isn’t natural, nothing like he’s ever felt, and he swears for just a moment that he can feel what you feel. That somehow, along the way, you had embedded your rage into his being. 

Hostile melancholy is a mixture he’s never experienced before. Not this strongly, and not from another person. It’s effect on him is dizzying. Din decides it would be best to ignore it, he can’t control you, he can only work at his job and hope that it doesn’t consume him the way it has with you.

Anger is bad for business. A clear mind is needed to accomplish dangerous tasks, and bulldozing down a whole sector of slavers was one of them. He itches to find them soon, if not for his sake or yours, then for the children. A boy had just been burnt alive, and now he’s aware they have an infant girl. 

A part of him thinks he might have taken the bounty without payment, with the knowledge of how many younglings they’d taken, his entire life had been built upon the importance of the young; the innate need to protect and serve those who couldn’t do it themselves. He can’t comprehend the type of person you have to be to endanger a youngling to this extent. 

Night falls much quicker than anticipated, and you had explained as much would happen. As stubborn as Din is, the warning had fallen on deaf ears. He had wanted to get as far as possible, but as the sun gives way to the last of its light, his mistake peaks with the moon.

Of course, you’d been _right._

“This looks like a good spot,” Din mutters more to himself than you, allocating the clearing atop a steep incline. Not much of a hill, but it provided both shelter, the advantage of stealth, and an alcove to keep hidden from nightlife or slavers.

Nodding, you come to stand beside him, “I suppose,” you hum, craning your neck to look him over, then returning to the spot he’d decided on. He follows your movement as you situate yourself atop a tree trunk. You say nothing more, shrugging off a sack you had brought with and setting it down beside the dead wood. 

Din further explores the area, never leaving you out of sight, but ensuring the outer foliage was clear. That, and gathering enough sticks for a fire. If it was below freezing now, he had no doubt it’d worsen throughout the night. He curses himself for not offering the Crest as a solution. 

Then again, there wasn’t much time on their hands, and you’d been insistent to leave then and there. Two hours wasted to find his ship in your frazzled spur would only delay the search. Even if rationally it’d have saved time once they were on board. 

Regardless, he hadn’t argued with you. You’re the one who was paying him, and in your defense, he’d been just as shocked once he’d learned of who exactly remained inside when your house turned to ash. Rational thought wasn’t exactly at the ready when the scent of burnt flesh rose through the air. 

Sighing, he placed the wood down on the ground, pleased that you’d already dug a dip into the soil, surrounded by small rocks. He hadn’t asked for help but appreciated it all the same. 

“Any plans,” you ask, gathering both flint and stone from your pack - and he has to wonder what else is in there, “I mean, once we get there, do we wait or charge?” 

His helm meets your eyes, an open question hanging in between the pair, yet the rage beneath is as distinct as it’d been unhinged. It’s only now that he realizes that you’re holding it back, trying to keep it under wraps while the both of you rest. Din had thought your sluggish self was caused by the distance you’d both just walked. 

“Charge?” he repeats, a bit dumbfounded, “no, that’s a bad idea. We wait.” He sets the sticks down in the small hole, and you’re there in an instant, scrapping the both tools together for a spark. Din’s impatient, sighing as he blinks at the scene. There were easier ways to get this done than wait for a rock to work. He taps at his vambrace, and a spurt of flame shoots out. 

You wince, heave even, inclining backwards with a loud hiss. He doesn’t pay it any attention, without a helmet like his, the light was blinding. Especially when made to narrow in on a target. A Mandalorian’s saving grace in grave circumstances. You’ve never seen one either, he can tell by the way you widen your eyes, the wary bounce from the vambrace to your…hand?

As soon as it has been breathed to life, the flamethrower cut short the second the drywood catches. It’s bright heat replaced by a rhythmic dance that crackled, scalding light licking at what it could. 

It’s when you whimper, a tempered little thing as you hold tightly at your palm that gets him to perk up. Sliding about the pit, he goes rigid, shocked at the scene. A lesion of blister and open tissue enveloped from your knuckles to the handle of your wrist. That had been _him_ , he knows immediately it was his flame that had ignited your flesh. 

You struggle upwards in your attempt to not use your right hand, inhaling heavily, your chest bursting to life in rapid puffs - mist escaping the purse of your mouth. He’s at your side in a swift, jarring motion, helping you to your feet. Guilt prods and digs into his gut, a pitted chagrin in his own stupidity for not checking if you were a good distance away. 

Maker, he knew you were at the pit, you were the one trying to ignite some sort of heat. And he’d just doused you with the potential of scars and dead nerve endings. _Di'kut_ , he chatasizes, frowning at the bright flush of your cheeks, tears pricking at your eyes despite withholding them. 

“I’m so sorry,” he ushers you back to the stump, “I should have been paying attention.” 

You huff a laugh, barely a wisp of one really, and nod to your pack. “I have ameliorate ointment in there,” he grabs at it, rummaging the woven cloth satchel with purpose, “it’s in a white container.” 

He finds it then, alongside a roll of bandages. You’d come prepared, though he doubts it was meant for a serious burn caused by himself. You wave it over, he opens it without askance and moves to take off the glove from his free hand, intent on doing it himself. 

You wince, “No,” you grab the medicine from him, shaking your head, “you don’t have to do that.” He goes to take it back, but you’re already preparing it, two fingers hovering above the open case.

Stopping just before the naked entrance, you sigh, “There’s water in there too, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing it.” 

The bottle is opened as soon as he has hold of it, and Din ensures he gets to at least do this much, pouring the liquid over your open fist. You gasp, emitting uneven whimpers while you bounce your leg. His guilt mounts high above, narrowing in on the wound until it’s imprinted to his memory. 

Din fights the urge to leap over and take control, the tremble of your lower lip rooting itself in the depths of his gut. He could help, why wouldn’t you let him?

With the same two fingers, you scoop a generous amount of the cream and smear it in a wide circle over the back of your hand. Then spread it upwards with delicate, shaking fingers, and roll it down the pads of your palm; your wrist is the easiest, and you’re most serene when you’ve messaged it in. 

The ointment bubbles and fizzes, Din lowering himself to his heels, focused on your injury. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he’s curious if the medicine hurts at all, or if it numbs you as it cleans? Healing agents isn’t a subject he’s familiar with.

Softening beside him, you flitter over a silken glimpse at him. From the sheen of his helm to the leather of his boots. You don’t try to hide it either, considering the hunter beside you, interest kempt. 

The observation of another didn’t bother him. As a Mandalorian he was used to it. His helmet is a sign of warriors, hunters, and killers. It brought fear and distrust wherever he went. This far out in the sector meant the sight of one was few and in between. This close up, without distractions, he wonders if you only now have the time to really take it in. 

Din gnaws at his lip, chest constricting when he looks back to the blood-chilling calcine he’d set to your hand.

This had to have more of a consequence, any other employer and they’d cut him off on the spot. At least that’s what he’s experienced with the last he’d overstepped. While it was his first, he’d sworn it to be his last. 

He would have to accept only half-payment. No matter how grueling this job may be. Din didn’t like the idea of hurting you then taking all you had. It was wrong, felt dirty like he had somehow broken his creed. 

Even if it remained untouched. 

“I would like to rescind -”

“Are you a foundling?” 

That throws him off, body stilling, heart shuddering, his muscles taut as they are inflamed. Your wound is a distant memory then, even as you wrap it within a clean, white bandage. He can’t look away then, gaping beneath beskar and incredulity. He had just caused you harm and that was what you came up with? 

How did you even know? He found it impossible for an assumption as left field as this, to be anything but right. For it to hit him directly in the sternum. Stringent, he leans back on his haunches and glares. It’s dark and meaningful and he hopes you can sense it the way he does your fury. 

“Why do you want to know?” he answers, careful, a dangerous edge to his voice. 

A pout dances at your pert mouth, the gander you share just as vast as the sky. A recipient of the night, with moonglow in your hair. As if you were inhuman despite appearances. 

It’s uncomfortable to say the least. A surprise really, and it’s gone just as quickly as it came. How else was he supposed to react other than irrationally? Whether it be within his conscience or outside the barriers of his armor. You didn’t know him, you’d just met eight hours ago. And you ask if he was a foundling? 

You shrug, reaching for your sack to retrieve a small bar, tossing a spare one that he captures from the brush of your fingers. His jaw slackens at the fact you’d all but forgotten your heavily bandaged hand. 

“I’m not sure,” you work the wrapper open, a narrow contour of frustration building at your complexion, “I don’t know a lot about Mandalorian culture, but I do know they take children that are orphaned.”

Din wastes no time in pressing further, more confused now than he’d been before, “Background information has nothing to do with my services.” His voice is harsh, filtered timbre scraping into the ambience. Enough so that you shift, discomfort evident in your posture. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just with our situation and everything…” your unharmed hand cinches at the bar, the wrapper crinkling beneath the stress of it, “I’m sorry, curiosity got the best of me.” You take a bite then, averting contact with each other, another hushed apology wisped away from you, full and genuine. Your remorse means nothing in the moment, your commentary etching at his flesh. It worsens when he takes note of your disregard for your abrasion.

He’d never met a person like you, not in the sense that you were brash or wild or free. No, this sensation came from the poignant tenor that besieged him as well, it rolled in dense and rampant, swallowed him whole, a major shift from when he’d found you at the canteen. 

The thought of continuing the current conversation makes him ill, but he doesn’t move away, his concern over your burn overruling his need for preserving his privacy. 

Silence takes over, nothing but the crackle and splinter of wood and the consistent crinkle of the wrapper. You glance his way once or twice, a curious glint crossing your face. He can sense you want to ask further, approach the subject in a more sensitive manner. 

Perhaps it’s your way in distracting yourself from the problems at hand. He couldn’t exactly blame you for that, after witnessing such a devastating loss, holding that much ire proceeding forward would be tiring. And to go head first into a camp of slavers would eat away at all your energy, something you needed to conserve. 

Din prepared for you to delve deeper, to spike at his past until he caved, which he undoubtedly wouldn’t do. 

His expectations are dispersed however, when you lie down near the fire and set your pack down to support your head. It takes time, but you fall into a deep sleep, breathing ever so slowly. 

He decides to keep watch, gaze out at the unremarkable plant life that littered this planet, pend on the dire situation you hired him for, and just how in over his head he might be.

* * *

The trail ends abruptly. Din is irritated with the discovery, pivoting from one side to the next in search for a hint of something, anything that might take them further. 

In the end he comes up empty, a growl at the back of his throat, and your tensile made presence at his side. You tap at the strap of your pack, inspecting foliage and stone alike, as if you might find something his visor could have missed. 

You don’t, which is no surprise to Din. When he is met with your open-mannered cast, rage subdued, you are easier to communicate with. The sudden shift that had swept in from last night bewildered Din. Made him uneasy. The only alarm you’d raised had been your question from last night, beyond that you only had your resolve. 

Hell-bent on taking down those who had murdered a child and his mother. The same killers who had taken a babe and father. He doesn’t like to think about it, the idea of an infant in the hands of slavers twisted at his gut, made it hard for him to focus. 

They’re nestled in wayward crossroads, unsure of where to go from here. There had to be another way to track them, a path or some sort of sign throughout the forest that would lead to their location. 

Din tips his helm down, meeting your eyes as you still pick at your packs strap. 

“There might be a way through those trees,” you point just over his shoulder, “I know it’s an old route, but it isn’t used anymore.” 

“Why?” 

“Part of it fell wayside with the rest of the mountain just north-west from here.” 

Din holds back a scoff, because of course the one path they might have a chance at, fell with a _mountain_. The pair of you hinder, your baring filtering from annoyed to distressed to something in between. 

Mindful, he thinks enroute that may overlap the preexisting one. There had to be a way to follow it, if they were lucky they’d find embossed pathways that were recent, or something that resembled as much. Din readies to speak -

A snap of a twig grabs him by the shoulders and jerks him in the direction of the sound. He moves to stand in front of you, keeping your body out of view; it was easy with someone smaller than himself, to keep you hidden from his expectant threat.

He didn’t want or need you to be harmed, let alone killed. Without you he wouldn’t get his pay, nor would it be right to dig it up without your consent. It was against Mandalorian creed. There’s also the added benefit of slaughtering slavers en masse. Your death could hinder any progress in that endeavor. 

Another crack signals itself left, just out of the corner of his peripheral. And again, more than once, about four times. It could be wildlife, but you’d mentioned how little there was on this side of Lah’mu. He found it highly unlikely that its odds of being as much were in his favor. 

Leather pinches at cold steel, a bitter bite that might have stung if not for the heavy guard of his gloves. He can sense your person against him, leant to the side in search for what you assume he’s seen. He twists, turns, and finds the culprit squatting behind shrubbery, and the overgrowth of wild pine. 

Their heat signature captured within his radar, he measures their distance, size, and the length of their rifle. Likely male, the stocky shadow of heat at least 6’1, maybe taller. Definitely human. Though, he can’t decipher what model the rifle is, jaw clenched, arm outstretched to keep you at the back of him, and a soft groan escapes you as he does so. 

You tiptoe closer, chest pressed to his back, hand coming to balance yourself at his bicep. Barely, as if thinking he wouldn’t notice, you peak out once more. Din withholds the temptation of a groan. He’d never met someone so intent in putting themselves in potential danger. Especially when a Mandalorian of all people offered _himself_ as a barrier. It was vexing.

The unknown man scoots, pauses, and the moment he makes to rise Din has his blaster aimed; trigger finger flexing once, twice, three times until the male is screaming. 

He falls in a heap, gravity sinking its teeth into him, clawing and digging and reveling in his weight. Din marches to his position, steps over the bushel, takes him by the arm and practically throws him to the other side. 

The male limp, blood weeping from his shoulder, elbow, and knee. He’d hit every shot as he’d intended, a roll of satisfaction sprawling down his spine. Tendon, rotator cuff, and knee cap unquestionably shattered.

“Fuck you!” he wails out, crimson ichor pooling at his arm, “I’ll kill you motherfuckers!” 

You move towards Din, heeling beside him with a waver of a glare. Din kneels down, blaster tight in hand and aimed once again, this time at the head. The man squints, heaves, and lurches out what he can only assume was meant to be another insult. 

Din slowly cocks his head, pistoned to his prey, “Why were you following us?” 

The moron hacks, then spits at Din, a dying smirk playing at his lips. The curl of them reminds Din of worms, and the lack of color in his complexion sickening. He’s losing blood and fast. 

“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” 

Din sighs, “I’m not asking again.” 

It’s his only and final warning, the man spitting a never ending stream of insults. Not one left to the imagination. Not only directed at himself, but you as well, a series of ‘slut’, ‘cunt’, and ‘bitch’ slithering their way out of his mouth. 

But you don’t flinch, don’t even react, just wait for whatever he has prepared for the stranger. Din rounds his blaster and smacks the butt of his weapon against the man’s cheek. The crackle of bone is immediate, deep mauve already forming at the novel gash. 

He laughs, it starts small and grows until it reaches the height of the trees. A man who pretends to be unafraid is a fool.

You do startle when he’s got his viroblade in hand, expertly flipping it throughout the weave of his fingers. “Try again.” 

“You think I care if you kill me?” he grouses, furrowing his brow line until it crinkles at his nose, “Piece of shit, you’ll fucking die, you hear-”

Din’s blade is shivved just atop his untouched kneecap, “Focus here,” he smacks at the mans head, ensuring it gets his bruise.“Right here, chakaar.” he grunts and groans and holds back an eager shout. Grounding his jaw, fixating on you a moment too long. “Or I’ll pop your fucking knee off. Why?” he waits, the man gaining his breath, drilling his attention back onto Din. 

“Why what?” 

The snark jabs at his patience, in one swift motion he splinters the cap out of place. Another star-shattering bellow dances into the sky. Birds flying off in a swell of chirps and caws. 

You startle, a small shuffle backwards away from the scene. A lack of interaction is all he needs to know you’ve stalled, and the more he continues is when he begins to realize just how unprepared you are for what’s to come. Hatred only took one so far. 

Din doesn’t need to ask again, the stranger trembling and unable to reach for the knife, a screw of fear in his expression. “I’m a scout,” he sucks in, out, in, and for just a second he’s gone. Din twists the blade, feels it grind against bone and tissue. The sob he lets out is one of anguish. 

“I was sent to track a Mandalorian, and send coordinates to homebase.” The fact he can string together a sentence is a miracle, one Din is grateful for. 

The bounty hunter inches forward, weight pressed into the blade until it’s sinking deeper. Another dull, long whine and he sputters out “Carja Rim wants you dead,” he blinks up but is unable to retreat from Din’s hard glare beneath the beskar, “I’ve already called you in, more are coming.” 

Bracing himself then, he keens his attention outwards as well, listening in wait. Making sure no one takes them by surprise, if they were close enough to hear, let alone get to them in time. 

“Where is your base?” your voice is steady, a withered abhor just beneath its surface. 

“Four klicks,” He lolls his head to the side, face drooping and eyelids heavy, “just north from here.” 

Din eases the tension of his viroblade, a censure of inflammation already beginning to form. 

“How many of you are there?” Din asks.

“I don’t know,” he sobs, “I swear I’m not lyin’, I swear it!” he drabbles, begs, pleads with all his heart. It comes from the gut, this specific terror. Din knows it well, like the back of his hand he has memorized it’s intricacies. From his life to others, the death of both on his shoulders.

The Mandalorian stands to his full height while ripping the blade out with his rise. Another choked caterwaul reverberates out. “I believe you.” Din declares.

Relief manscapes his massacre of a face, a frantic nod pulling at the seams of his neck. Din glances down at you, and you offer a satisfied nod, ready to leave. Din waits, even as you begin to edge forward, he thumbs at his blaster. 

There was no way of telling if he’d call for more backup or not, if their location would be exposed once again, and that was something he couldn’t risk.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, voice distant as he pushes it to the back of his mind, and before the scout can further his desperation, Din _shoots._

The charge echoes, a splatter of gore, skull, and brain spreading across the once lovely field. Without a glance, Din rests his blaster in its holster. He doesn’t bother to examine you either, his impression already febrile under your duress. 

He gets the feeling you want to admonish him, but all that comes out is a wheeze. Then silence, the soft pitter of boots behind him, and a fear driven regard for the Mandalorian. A glimpse, he thinks, of what you’ll see when this is all done. Of who you exactly hired.

A hunter, just as his _creed_ demands. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, any support would be amazing! Kudo's and comments all welcomed!


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